Betrayed Heiress: Marrying The Wall Street Devil

The sharp, aggressive buzz of the apartment doorbell echoed through the hallway.

Ina flinched. She snatched the white B. W. shirt off the counter. She ran to her laundry basket and shoved the shirt deep under a pile of dirty towels.

She ran to her closet. Her neck and collarbones were covered in dark purple bruises from Buren's mouth. She grabbed a thick, black cashmere turtleneck sweater and pulled it over her head. The high collar hid the evidence completely.

She took three deep breaths, forcing her racing heart to slow down. She walked to the entryway and pulled the door open.

Faron Levine stood in the hallway. His expensive tailored suit was wrinkled. His face was dark with anger. His eyes swept over Ina's body like a police scanner.

"Where were you last night?" Faron demanded. His voice dripped with fake concern. "Why didn't you answer your phone?"

Ina dug her nails deep into her palms. The pain kept her voice steady. "I drank too much at the charity gala. I crashed at Clementine's apartment."

Faron sneered. He took a step forward, invading her personal space. He leaned in, sniffing the air around her, trying to find the scent of another man.

Ina locked her knees. She refused to step back. She stared directly into his eyes.

Faron's gaze dropped to the edge of her turtleneck. He raised his hand, his fingers reaching out to pull the fabric down.

Ina jerked her head back. "Watch your hands, Faron," she warned, her tone freezing.

Before Faron could force the issue, a loud, specialized notification chime erupted from his suit pocket.

Faron frowned. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen.

Ina watched his face. A flicker of confusion crossed his features. The dark anger shifted into something more calculating. He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the image.

Ina shifted her eyes. She caught a glimpse of his screen. It was a push notification from Page Six, the most notorious gossip column in New York.

The bold headline read: WALL STREET TITAN'S LATE NIGHT RENDEZVOUS.

Below the text was a grainy paparazzi photo. It showed Buren Warner walking out of the side entrance of The Plaza Hotel. He was using his large wool overcoat to shield a woman's face from the cameras. The caption identified the woman as socialite Alex Stone.

Faron studied the photo for a long moment. His jaw tightened. He knew Ina had been inside that hotel—his private investigator had confirmed the elevator log. But seeing Buren Warner’s name changed the calculation. A direct confrontation with Warner was suicide, even for the Levine family. If Warner had been the one in that suite, and if he had gone to such lengths to hide the woman’s identity, then pushing this further would only bring a predator’s attention onto Faron himself.

He took a slow breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. He needed to retreat—for now. He would find another way to destroy Ina.

Faron's face instantly transformed. The angry interrogator vanished. He put on the mask of a loving, devoted partner.

"I am so sorry, darling," Faron said, opening his arms. "I was just out of my mind with worry."

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Ina.

Ina's face was pressed against his shoulder. Her nose was instantly hit with the heavy, spicy scent of his signature Tom Ford cologne. But as he pulled back slightly, her eyes caught something else. Resting on the lapel of his immaculate suit was a single, distinct strand of coarse, dyed blond hair. At that exact moment, a faint, lingering scent brushed past her senses—the acrid, cheap smell of a sweet vape pen, completely at odds with Faron's usual pristine circles. The realization hit her like a physical blow. Details that definitely did not belong to Faron.

Her stomach violently heaved. Acid burned the back of her throat.

Ina shoved both hands against Faron's chest and pushed him away with all her strength. She clamped a hand over her mouth and gagged loudly.

Faron stumbled back. His fake smile dropped. A flash of genuine panic crossed his eyes. "Ina? What is wrong?"

"Hangover," Ina gasped, pointing toward the door. "My stomach is killing me. Please leave. I need to sleep."

Faron did not want to push his luck. He needed this reconciliation to look perfect to the public. "Of course. Rest well. I will call you later." He turned and walked out.

Ina slammed the door and locked the deadbolt.

Her legs gave out. She slid down the wooden door until she hit the floor.

She pulled her own phone from her pocket. She opened the Page Six website and found the photo of Buren.

She zoomed in on the woman huddled under Buren's coat. The woman's face was hidden, but a small piece of her dress hem was visible. The fabric was black.

Ina's breathing stopped. She knew Alex Stone. She had seen Alex's Instagram post from last night. Alex had been wearing a bright red dress.

The woman in the photo was not Alex Stone.

Ina's brain connected the dots. Buren had deliberately called the paparazzi. He had used Alex Stone's name as a decoy. He had orchestrated a fake news scandal to draw all the attention away from the presidential suite, completely erasing Ina's presence from the scene.

Buren Warner had saved her.

Ina stared at Buren's sharp profile in the photo. A freezing chill crawled up her spine.

Men like Buren did not do favors for free. They did not protect people out of kindness. They only protected their investments.

Why did he go to such extreme lengths to cover her tracks? What did he want from her?

Before she could process the terror, her phone erupted with a blaring, emergency ringtone.

Ina jumped. She looked at the screen. It was her father, Reginald Holman.